Entangled
by MizJoely
Summary: How will Molly Hooper react when a wounded sea-dweller becomes entangled in one of her fishing nets?
1. Caught In A Trap

_A/N: For lilsherlockian1975, always such a wonderful cheerleader for my most outrageous fics. Enjoy this smutty merl-lock two-parter, everyone!_

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 **Part 1: Caught In A Trap**

He was tangled in the nets when she went down to the shore to check them, one of the sea-folk with dark curls and a silvery sheen to his pale skin, matched by the iridescent scales of his sleek, blue-green tail. He was wounded, a dagger-slash to his side; she'd seen many such injuries since the wars between land- and sea-folk had begun, although none on a living being. Being the Death-Minder for her people, living alone on the island where they brought their dead to tended and buried, should have made her hate him, but she couldn't bring herself to land the blow that would end his life, as her tribesmen would doubtless have urged her to do.

Instead, she used the clever pulley system her father had rigged and taught her the use of, to haul him onto the shore above the tide-line of her small cove. Removing the breast-plate he wore was difficult but not impossible once she'd worked out the straps that held it to his shoulders. Her hand hesitated a long moment at the knot of the loincloth that wrapped around his very human-looking hips and hid his most intimate parts from her view, but in the end prudence won out, and she left him covered. If there were another wound hidden from her sight then blood would darken the fabric soon enough, she counseled herself.

But her cheeks darkened and she had to remind herself that he was neither a corpse for her to study nor a potential lover for her to enjoy, but rather a wounded being who needed her aid. With that in mind, she brought out her basket of medicines, her packet of needles and the fine thread she used on her delicate ceremonial gown, and settled herself carefully on an oiled cloth next to him. She lit a small fire and heated the needle, the better to keep infection at bay, and stitched the wound, softly singing a tune she'd learned from her gran many years ago.

He regained consciousness only once, after the needle had already threaded his wound half-way shut; his eyes opened and fixed upon hers, and she nearly lost her breath at the sight of them, as blue-green as the ocean on a fine day, matching well the scales covering his lower half. Over all - flesh and scales, even his eyes - there were glints of silver that caught the light and made him seem even more otherworldly than a sea-dweller already was. "I'm Molly Hooper," she told him, her fingers stilling at their work. "You were injured, I've treated your wound and now I'm sewing you up."

He said nothing, his eyes flickering shut again and a sigh escaping his lips that made her heart stutter in her chest. As soon as she regained control of herself, she returned to her sewing, well-pleased that her embroidery skills helped to ensure that the stitches would be small and even. There would be a scar on his side, but it would not be a ragged, jagged mess. If, of course, he lived; he burned with fever for three days after her surgery, in spite of the healing herbs she carefully packed around the wound and fed him in the tea she brewed.

She was careful to keep him shaded from the sun, fashioning a shield from driftwood and her oldest quilt; she was equally careful to keep his tail and fins damp with sea-water. She tried not to let her eyes linger on his body, but couldn't help it; the sea-folk made sure to take their dead with them when the battles ended, and none of the land-folk would even consider burying their enemies with their own people.

His lashes were dark and thick, like his hair; like his hair they curled beautifully. He was lean and broad-shouldered, his waist narrow, his scales blending with his flesh just where a land-dweller's thighs would begin. He wore an armband exquisitely carved from a single massive shell and bore no other decorations or ornaments. The loincloth knotted at the place where a land-dweller's hip would be was a deep blue, of a thick weave that did little to hide the shape of his manhood. She was once again tempted to look beneath that covering, but her conscience prickled at her again, and so again she refrained. But oh, her dreams as she slept by his side that first night were enough to bring a flush to her cheeks upon waking!

During the three days of his fever no one approached her; no boats found their way to her shore, bearing dead for her to tend to, and for that she was grateful. Not only because she feared what might happen to her charge should he be found with her, but also because it meant no one had died during whatever battle had damaged him, at least no land-dwellers. She'd already received her monthly supplies; there were no ceremonies requiring her attendance for another fortnight; and she'd yet to be assigned an apprentice to learn the trade to which she'd been born. That would happen soon, within a year's time at least, but not before then. All the youths and maidens were needed to fight, and none could be spared, or so she'd been told, to take on such duties to the dead when the living needed them more.

On the fourth day his fever broke, and when she carefully peeled away the bandages covering his wound, she found no redness marring the skin, and very little blood on the bandages themselves. She returned to her humble cottage, bringing back a shallow basin filled with fresh water with which to rinse the bandages, and fresh cotton to wind around his side, but when she approached the lean-to she'd built, her heart raced with fear: he was gone.

She dropped the basin and bandages and ran the rest of the way, scanning the water anxiously, a relieved sigh crossing her lips as she saw his head emerge from beneath the waves, and then his shoulders and chest. Oh, he was magnificent in his element, and she clapped her hands together happily as he dove and flipped his tail like a frolicking dolphin. If the injury pained him he showed no signs, and she recalled her chieftain cursing the healing abilities of their enemies when she was still a girl.

He swam closer, and she smiled, the smile fading only slightly as she realized he was well enough to leave her now. She thought he would demand his armor, and had half-turned to run back to the beach and bring it to him, when she realized he was now at her feet. One hand rested on the wet stones of the narrow breakwater, and the other was lifted up, as if beckoning her forward.

Others wiser than her might have hesitated, expecting a trap; the sea-folk were whispered to be ruthless and treacherous, their hatred for land-walkers well known to all with two legs, but she did as he'd silently asked. If he was to reward her care for him by drowning her, then so be it; she'd seen enough death not to fear it, even if drowning wasn't the swiftest of ends. Her entire life had been nothing but endurance, and if this was her fate, then she refused to fear it.

As soon as she picked her way to where he waited, she knelt down and asked, "Are you well? Did you...wish to say good-bye?"

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. "No," he said, his voice far deeper than she'd expected it to be, sending a shiver up her spine that had nothing to do with fear. "I wished to...thank you. We're taught all our lives that the land-folk are dangerous, untrustworthy and hateful. I am...pleased to discover that isn't entirely true."

She smiled shyly at his words, wondering at how closely they echoed her own earlier thoughts. "I'm just glad you're all right," she said. "And don't worry, I won't tell anyone you were here."

"Sherlock," he said when she hesitated, reading her desire to know his name in that small pause, or the expression on her face. "And again...thank you."

With that he raised himself up effortlessly till their faces were but inches apart, his eyes on hers. Her lips parted in a gasp as he leaned forward and kissed her. Her first kiss, and from one of the sea-folk.

He tasted of salt and she loved it, leaning forward unconsciously until suddenly she tumbled into the ocean with him. She sputtered and shook water from her face while he laughed, and ruefully joined him once she'd overcome her embarrassment. Fortunately she was wearing nothing too heavy that might drag her under the waves, only a brief tunic and small-clothes, her feet unshod.

She found purchase on an outcropping that brought her chest-deep in the brine, and Sherlock rested his hands on either side of her body. "Do you want me?" he asked frankly.

She felt her cheeks flushing at having been so easily read - but nodded. She'd never lain with a man, land-walker or sea-folk, and even though such was forbidden, once again she found herself uncaring of the consequences. He held out a hand, and she hesitated only a moment before grasping it, allowing him to draw her away from the relative safety of the breakwater. He held her easily in his arms, pressing soft kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her ears, before murmuring, "I want you as well, Molly Hooper."

They swam to the shallows, allowing a wave to lift them and bring them to shore near the lean-to she'd improvised. They came to rest atop the oiled cloth, Sherlock easily pulling himself up to lie next to Molly. His eyes were darkened with desire, the blue-green mere rings, but the silver seemed even more pronounced. "Beautiful," she breathed.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied, and she blushed to see him staring intently at her. "Will you remove your clothes, show yourself to me?"

She did so, carefully setting her tunic and smalls aside before looking shyly over at him. His sea-green eyes roamed her body, his plush lips curving in a smile while she forced her hands to remain by her sides and not cup her sex, cover her breasts, as her natural modesty told her she must. "So lovely," he murmured, reaching out to stroke her side.

A flicker of fear stirred; had he bespelled her somehow? Was that why she was so taken with him, why she wished to lie with him? The sea-dwellers were rumored to have such powers, although she'd disbelieved in them as nothing but wild tales meant to frighten children. But as she gazed at him again, her temporary fear vanished. No, he had no need of such, not one that looked as he did, with his dark curls and well-muscled figure - well, the human part of it. But his tail was just as beautiful to her eyes, the scales glistening in the sunlight. She concentrated instead on memorizing every feature, knowing well that their tryst might never be repeated.

He seemed as taken with her as she was with him, his fingers lightly tracing the lines of her body, her hip, her thigh, grazing her sex as she let out a shuddering gasp.

Keeping his gaze on hers, he slowly, deliberately unknotted and removed his loincloth, then set it aside. Eyes resolutely fixed on the colorful fabric, she blushed even as she reached out a hesitant hand. She started to let it drop, embarrassed by her forward behavior, but he gave a low laugh and caught her wrist, drawing her hand closer to his body. "It would please me to feel your flesh against mine, Molly," he said, his voice a deep rumble.

The heat on her face felt as fiery as the sun, but she allowed her questing hand to land, first, on the smooth, muscular planes of his chest, then drifting down toward his stomach. Like land-walkers, he had a belly-knot, which meant that they bore their young the same way as her own people, although perhaps more like sea-going mammals such as whales or dolphins. The idea of giving birth in the water seemed appealing, but she was quickly distracted from such musings as her fingers, moving still lower, finally attained their goal.

Where her fingers went, her eyes shyly followed, widening somewhat at the size and heft of him. It took her a moment to understand that he'd grown hard beneath her touch, in the manner whispered to her by the few girls she'd known when still in her teen years, before her father's death and the obligations of her position isolated her from the rest of her tribe for ten months out of every twelve.

Those thoughts flashed through her mind like the crashing of a wave on shore: quickly there, quickly gone, as she continued to explore the exquisite form of her sea-dwelling lover. When she realized that the simple touch of her fingers was causing his shaft to stir, to lengthen and thicken even more, her blush spread from her face to her chest, even as her heart increased its tempo. "Beautiful," she murmured for a second time, then blushed anew at his low, rich chuckle.

"Not something I've often heard about that particular body part, little one, but thank you." His hand on her chin tilted her face up to meet his, and the intensity of his eyes - the desire she saw there - made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. He threaded his fingers through her hair with his other hand, pulling her close for their second kiss.

His long, cool torso pressed against hers, and her nipples tightened at the sensation. Both bodies warmed as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her even closer, allowing her female center to press against his shaft.

She was embarrassed by the loud moan she gave at the sensation, but Sherlock paid no mind, simply continued to kiss every part of her face and neck - and lower. When his mouth settled on one rosy nipple she gasped, her hands moving without conscious thought to hold his head, to stroke the damp curls and wonder at how the simple movement of lips and tongue could bring so much pleasure.

Then his fingers stroked the warm area between her legs, and she felt as if her insides were about to melt, to dissolve and leave her boneless. She gave a soft cry, fingers digging into his head. He released her nipple with a soft pop and captured her lips with his again. His fingers continued to move, quickly finding that small nub she'd long ago learned was the source of a woman's pleasure, even if she'd rarely allowed herself such release.

But oh, how she was enjoying herself, thoroughly wanton in her eagerness to feel the raptures of the flesh! And he didn't disappoint; those long, elegant fingers were clever indeed, swiftly finding the right rhythm and pressure to bring her over the edge, eyes shut tight and voice keening his name.

She let her head drop back on the oilcloth with a gasp, small shudders running over her form as Sherlock rested next to her. When she opened her eyes he was smiling, looking much the way her cat Tobias did when he got into the cream. "I'd wondered if land-dwellers took the same enjoyment from sex that we do," he said.

"I can't wait to find out," she said softly, reaching up to stroke his face.

Something of her words must have told him what she wasn't quite saying; there was a look of consternation on his face as he asked, "Have you never…?"

She shook her head before he could finish the question. "No, never. And I'm glad it's you," she added fiercely. She pulled him down for another kiss, and another, until they were both breathless. "I'm glad it's you," she whispered against his lips as she closed her eyes.

Those plush lips, swollen with kisses, pressed gently against her eyelids. "Then so am I."

She squealed in surprise as she felt him lifting her up, rolling onto his back so that she straddled him. His tail felt odd between her legs, damp and slippery, but the warmth of his shaft pressing on her still-sensitive center sent shivers of want coursing through her. He guided her to her knees, his hands on her hips; she leaned down to kiss him, her breasts brushing against his chest, and he groaned. "Neptune's trident, Molly, I don't think I've ever wanted a woman as much as I want you right now."

"Then you can have me," she said with a crooked smile, raising herself up and slowly easing herself onto him. Even if his words were likely fueled more by lust than truth, she didn't care. There was a slight burning sensation as he pierced her fully, and she leaned down to rest against his supple form before daring to move again.

He held still beneath her, his hands on her arms and his eyes steadfast to hers, until at last she lifted her head and smiled, slowly raising and lowering her hips as she adjusted to the sensation of having him inside her. His hands - so big yet so delicate - held to her waist as he began to move beneath her, his shaft gliding deeper and deeper within her. She cried out in surprise as she felt the cresting tide of ecstasy growing within her, the feeling like and yet unlike the sensation she'd felt when he'd touched her before. It was as if she had another pleasure-pearl, this one hidden deep inside her, meant only for a lover to find.

The truth of this belief was proven only minutes later, when he urged her to lean forward again, changing the angle at which he moved within her. She cried out his name, unembarrassed, heedless of anything except the sensation bursting within her, leaving her shuddering and shaking in its aftermath.

He slowed his movements until she recovered enough to press a kiss to his lips, then began thrusting deep within her. She held onto him, nuzzling his neck and making contented sounds until a groan tore itself from his throat; he gave one last thrust, his entire body tensing beneath hers, and she felt his hot seed pouring into her.

They lay together twice more before the sun set, and once after the moon rose. The next morning, sore betwixt her nethers but sated in a way she'd never felt before, Molly said her good-byes to her lover. "I'll never forget you," she promised him as he reluctantly donned his breast-plate and loincloth. "And I'll never tell a single soul about us."

He paused in his redressing to snatch up her hands, pressing fervent kisses to her palms. "Nor I you," he promised. Then he kissed her, so sweetly, holding her head between his hands before pulling away with a sad smile. "I never forget anyone who matters to me, Molly Hooper, and you must always believe that you are the one that matters most."

When the kiss ended, he waited for a high wave to wash over his lower body, allowing it to carry him into the ocean. Molly watched as he swam out to the end of the breakwater; he paused, turned to offer her a solemn salute, then dived below the surface of the ocean, and was gone.


	2. Can't Walk Out

**Two Years Later: Can't Walk Out**

Sherlock would never have dared to believe it, but there he was, witnessing the peace-binding between his people and the land-walkers of Molly's tribe. A peace he'd never been interested in seeing between their two peoples until she came into his life - and glad he was of it, even if it had been only for a few, fleeting days. The happiest of his life, were he willing to admit to so frivolous an emotion. Molly's act of mercy had caused him to return the favor to one of her tribesman, the man who stood on the shore opposite him - John Watson, a soldier and physician who had urged their new chief - Lestrade was his name - to speak to Sherlock's brother Mycroft and try to bring an end to their war.

The actions of both men, as well as their words, had not fallen on deaf ears. Sherlock acknowledged John's slight smile with a nod of his head as Mycroft and Lestrade clasped forearms, signalling that the peace-bonding was complete. Cheers erupted from both land and sea as the witnesses gave voice to their relief and happiness at this momentous occasion.

During the process he'd looked in vain for Molly, and afterwards, when he and John were free to speak to one another, he asked after her. Although he tried not to sound too eager - he'd never told John what had prompted him to come to his aid, keeping true to his promise to Molly - something in his voice or eyes must have given him away. John gave him a hard look, then a short bark of laughter as he shook his head. "It's you," he said, inexplicably to Sherlock. "You're the one - of course it would be you, I should have known!"

"Known what?" Sherlock demanded, wishing - not for the first time - that he could turn his fins to legs in order to walk on land. In this case, he also wished to shake his friend into explaining himself, although he had a sinking feeling he already knew.

Sure enough, John's next words confirmed that suspicion. "Molly Hooper had an...encounter...with a sea-dweller two years ago," he said, pitching his voice low in case anyone was listening. Which was ridiculous, as everyone was too busy singing and drinking and feasting to care what they said. "That was you, wasn't it."

Sherlock nodded. "Is she here?" he asked, not bothering to hide his eagerness now that John knew the truth.

But the physician shook his head. "No, she's not - and she's not on the Death-Minder's island anymore, either," he added when Sherlock made as if to swim away.

"Why not? Where is she?"

"She was given an apprentice, and he's taken over her role - Philip Anderson is his name. Not as good at the rituals as she was, but competent enough, I suppose," John said. He sounded as if he doubted his own words, but Sherlock didn't care about the apprentice, only about Molly, and said so in no uncertain terms.

"She's been exiled," John said bluntly. "By Magnussen, not by Lestrade." The land-dweller's former chief had been given over to the sea-dwellers for punishment when Lestrade, aided by Sherlock and John, had discovered that he had been the true reason for the war. He'd murdered the envoy Mycroft had sent to broker a trade agreement, as well as one of his own tribesmen who had witnessed the killing, then blamed the sea-dweller for it all.

"Exiled? Because of me?" Sherlock was stunned; he'd not expected such ill news, and felt a surge of guilt and anger at having been the cause of any harm to the woman who counted, who meant so much to him no matter how brief their actual time together had been.

"Don't worry," John said, clearly mistaking his friend's words as concern for himself. "She said nothing, told no one the name of her, erm, 'friend'. And now, why, it matters not!"

Sherlock ignored John's words. "Why hasn't Lestrade lifted the exile?" he demanded, sending a dark scowl towards the silver-haired human seated comfortably on the breakwater and talking to Mycroft.

"He couldn't, not until the treaty was formalized," John told him. "But I know he intends to allow Molly to return, now that our people are truly at peace."

"Where…" Sherlock started to ask but John was already speaking.

"It's the northernmost island in the chain, the one shaped like a dolphin." He gave his friend a sly smirk. "I'd offer to take you there, but I'll warrant my boat won't travel nearly as swiftly as your fins - after all, I've heard love lends speed to even the hardest of hearts!"

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh and eye-roll. "Yes, yes, John, your humor remains at the level I'd expect from a land-walker."

John's expression had become serious, but before he could do more than open his mouth to give voice to whatever warning he deemed it his duty to give - for surely such a relationship between their two peoples could have no good ending, or so Sherlock been cautioned often enough when his fascination with land-walkers had come to his brother's attention - Sherlock had already disappeared beneath the waves.

 **oOo**

Molly was working the nets, bringing in a fresh catch, the only means by which she could make a living after Magnussen had her exiled. Once a month she'd be visited by Mike Stamford, the kindly merchant who'd offered to buy whatever she caught and who insisted on visiting her himself rather than simply sending one of his sailors.

And all just so his wife, Sarah, the Healer from the village the three of them had grown up in, could continue to see Molly. Magnussen had decreed that her services would not be 'wasted' on Molly after the first year of her exile, but now that Lestrade had become Chief, Molly had hopes that her exile would soon be at an end. There had been rumors of a peace treaty between the land-walkers and the sea-dwellers, and she'd prayed to the Gods most earnestly that such a peace might come to pass. Not only for her sake, but for the sake of…

"Sherlock," she whispered, the net dropping from her calloused hands at the sight of her lover rising from the waves. "Sherlock!" she cried out, tears of joy springing from her eyes as she splashed into the water, heedless of the fish now frantically swimming free of their entrapment. She reached the deeper waters where he waited, and threw herself into his welcoming arms, laughing and crying as his lips met hers in a tender kiss.

She broke the kiss almost immediately, her eyes seeking the shore. "Sherlock, I must...there's something you need to know," she said anxiously. She could feel his eyes upon her as she pulled regretfully from his embrace.

"Your exile will be lifted by your chief," he interrupted her, reaching out to capture her hands in his. "The war is over, peace has been declared and our people are celebrating even now."

Her smile faltered, but before he could ask her what was wrong - she could practically see the words forming on his perfect lips - a sound from shore caught her attention.

"Mama! Wanna swim! Who dat?"

Sherlock had gone rigid in her embrace, and she stole a glance at his face, seeing the shock she knew he must be feeling. She'd meant to tell him first thing; she had resolved that long ago, upon first discovering that he'd left her with child, to tell him first thing…but seeing him had thrown those good intentions out of her mind entirely. All she could do now was say, "Her name is Merina."

"She has legs," Sherlock breathed, eyes still glued to the tiny figure toddling into the waves.

Molly turned and held out her arms. "Come in, Merina, and meet your father, my sweet!"

"She has legs," Sherlock said again, but when Molly glanced at him again she saw the way his eyes were taking in every detail about their fifteen-month-old daughter. The tumble of dark curls on her head. The sun-kissed flesh. The brown eyes, so like her own; the plump lips unmistakably shaped as his were; the sturdy little body splashing in the shallows - and the silvery sheen of scales on her legs, human legs ending in elongated, webbed feet.

He said nothing more as Merina swam out to meet them, diving beneath the waves and popping up only a few inches from her mother's waiting arms. "Mama!" she piped in her dear, sweet voice, smiling widely as Molly swept her into her embrace. "Who dat? Fodder?" She leaned forward as if to get a closer look at Sherlock, and Molly held her breath as she waited for his reaction.

In living memory, no land-walker had ever birthed a child sired by one of the sea-dwellers. She'd had to take Mike Stamford and his wife into her confidence as her time neared, and they'd not let her down. Even after her exile they'd remained steadfast allies, refusing to allow Merina to be drowned at birth as Chief Magnussen had so arrogantly decreed. Nor had she given the name of her lover, even under threat of torture. The traditions of her people had been shredded by the war, but not so badly that he was allowed to follow through on that threat. Exile, however, was well within his powers and he'd sent her away without an ounce of pity or remorse in his eyes.

Molly feared to see what was in Sherlock's eyes as he continued to study Merina; would he reject her, reject them both? Would be repulsed by their child, disgusted by the fact that she had legs rather than fins and a tail? Would he…

"Molly." His voice cut through her thoughts like a dagger; her eyes flew up to meet his. "You are thinking too loudly. Kindly stop so I can…" his voice caught, just the smallest bit, and she felt some of the pooling tension in her stomach start to ease as he continued speaking. "Kindly stop so I can properly introduce myself to our daughter. Hello, Merina," he added, returning his attention to the now-squirming toddler in Molly's arms. "That means 'Little Ocean' in my language, did you know that?"

Merina laughed and held out her arms. Sherlock looked to Molly for permission, but with a smile on her lips she gladly relinquished her hold. Merina was giggling as she was held by her father for the first time. "Fodder!" she said gleefully, patting his face and reaching up to tug on his hair. "You gots my hairs!"

"No, little one," he corrected her solemnly. "You gots mine." He patted her head, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to one plump, rosy cheek. "But you have your mother's beautiful eyes."

Merina giggled again, while Molly fought down a sudden lump in her throat. This meeting had been so perfect that she feared what might happen next. But she tried her best to ignore the many questions and worries swirling through her mind, concentrating instead on the happiness on Merina's face, and the wonder she now recognized in Sherlock's gaze. When he flipped his tail out of the water for their daughter to see, she clapped her hands together and bounced in his arms. "We can swims! Mama can't swims like me but you can, Fodder!"

"Yes, I'd love to swim with you," Sherlock said with a slight - very slight - wince and grimace that Merina didn't notice, even if Molly did. "But perhaps you could just call me Papa instead?"

She tilted her head to one side, then nodded. "Papa," she said proudly, turning to look at her mother. She pointed at Sherlock. "Look, Mama, Papa!"

"Yes, that's your Papa," Molly said as she once again found herself battling tears. "I hope he will visit us many times…"

Sherlock interrupted her with a scowl. "Not visiting, Molly, staying. Either here or back on your old island. Wherever you two go, so do I." His gaze turned uncertain and he added in a faltering voice, "Unless that's now what you want, then of course…"

It was her turn to interrupt him, moving closer to tug him down for a lingering kiss. "I wish you to remain with us always," she whispered, not trusting her voice. "Always, always."

"Awees!" Merina crowed, clapping her hands together before wiggling out of Sherlock's arms. She paddled around her parents as their lips met in another kiss, the first of many they would share during their long, happy lives together.

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 _A/N: Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing this little merm!lock fic. I'm sure you're shocked - shocked! - that it turned into a parentlock story!_


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